


consequences of deliberate manipulation of established paradigms

by janewestin



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F, Happily Ever After, Heist Wives, Idiots in Love, Post-Movie, loubbie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-08-22 16:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16601528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin
Summary: Lou and Debbie have a routine. Daphne disrupts it.donezo. epilogue posted 12/17





	1. intro-lude

They don’t fuck until three days after the last transaction clears.

 

They’ve scattered by then, returning to their previous lives with a shared secret and thirty-eight million dollars to each of their names. All except Debbie and Lou.

 

Debbie’s been dragging her feet. Claude is in jail, she’s got more money than she knows what to do with, the world is her fucking oyster, but she loiters on Lou’s couch like a teenaged stoner. She knows why. It was like this every time, before prison. The planning. The obsessing. Late nights and pressured conversations, Lou’s glittering eyes hard as silver until the job was done. She went lax and lazy afterward, for a while, anyway.

 

It was weeks-long foreplay, tight and hyperfocused, magnified a thousandfold by five years, eight months, twelve days. They clattered against each other like pebbles in a jar. Lou’s breath on her cheek as they huddled around a computer screen, coffee and Korean barbecue, her fingers hovering near the back of Debbie’s neck.

 

She surprised Debbie just once, the day Tammy printed the copy of the Toussaint. Lou rolled it in her hands, her forearms flexing with the weight of it. The stones clacked dully against each other. She put the necklace down and looked at Debbie. Her eyes were bright, her pale cheeks flushed pink.

 

The moment the door closed behind Amita, Lou shoved Debbie up against the wall.

 

“Oh,” Debbie said, “okay.” Lou was already yanking at the button on her jeans. It took a little longer than it used to—Lou had jumped her out of _nowhere_ , and she was forty-one, for God’s sake, not the juicy little twenty-two-year-old she’d been when they started running jobs—but Lou had her shaking apart before her legs even got tired.

 

“Goddamn it,” she gasped, head back, eyes closed, feeling Lou’s hand slip out of her pants. She felt blindly for Lou’s shoulder and shoved. “You asshole. I have to _concentrate_.”

 

Lou chuckled, retreated. Debbie opened one eye and watched her cross to the stairs, one long-fingered hand smoothing her hair. “Get a good night’s sleep,” she said over her shoulder. “Early day tomorrow.”

 

“Asshole,” Debbie mumbled again, buttoning her jeans. Her chest felt annoyingly warm. She went to her bedroom on watery legs, and it wasn’t until she was drifting off to sleep that she realized this was the first time Lou had touched her before a job was done.

 

Well. This was a big one. She supposed that had to count for something.

 

She didn’t want to admit, now, that she was waiting for Lou, but yeah, she was waiting for Lou. Debbie wasn’t _whimsical_ , she always made sure it was a done deal before she let herself celebrate, but Lou was so fucking prickly, more than usual. Like she had the post-holiday blues, or something.

 

“Will you _relax_ ,” Debbie said, as Lou stalked into the kitchen for her third cup of coffee that hour.

 

Lou didn’t look up from her phone as she walked. “Four trades this morning,” she said around a mouthful of coffee.

 

“Thirty-eight million isn’t enough?” Debbie stretched out on the couch, tipping her head back on the armrest. “We could travel. Paris. I’d love a real unicorn tapestry.”

 

She heard the clunk of the coffee mug on the dining table, Lou’s soft bare footsteps coming back toward her, and the next thing she knew Lou was on top of her.

 

“I hate you,” Lou said into her throat.

 

Debbie arched, grinned. This was more like it.

 

***

By the following Saturday, Lou was packing a bag.

 

“You need therapy,” Debbie said from the doorway, arms crossed, watching her.

 

Lou snorted. “Right.”

 

“I’m serious.” Debbie came into the room and sat down on the bed. “Most people would be happy.”

 

“Who says I’m not happy?” Lou zipped the bag and looked at Debbie. “Nice outfit.”

 

It was a McQueen skirt she’d found in one of Lou’s closets. No top. She grinned. “Well, I had to do _something_ to entice you to stay.”

 

Lou didn’t acknowledge that. “Don’t forget to shut off the water if you leave.”

 

“Where would I go?”

 

Lou arched a cool eyebrow. She was right, of course. Debbie had never really thought to go international before, but now she had _resources_. Maybe Paris after all.

 

Debbie held up her hands. “Right. I’ll remember.”

 

“Don’t touch my Tesla.” Lou hefted the bag onto her shoulder.

 

Debbie shuddered. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She leaned back against the pillows. It might be two weeks, might be eight. Who knew, with the mood Lou was in. “See you.”

 

Lou didn’t look at her. “See you, Deb.”

 

***

 

Debbie was bored, and she was pissed off about it. Lou had been gone four days— _four_! _Days_!—and now it was over, it was done, they’d gotten away with it and she couldn’t believe she was _bored_. The thing they don’t tell you about being a multi-millionaire—particularly a _secret_ multi-millionaire—is that there are only so many designer bags you can buy before they all start to look the same. And the truth was, Debbie didn’t care as much about the money as she did about pulling it off. It was a dance, a gorgeously choreographed dance, and when she was whirling and leaping, nothing else mattered.

 

Lou’s house was too fucking big. Debbie wasn’t paranoid, but it made noises _all_ _the_ _time_. She stayed in her bedroom, mostly, Googling museums in Europe. Nothing as fancy as the Met Gala. Small jobs for a while—two years, three. Maybe longer. Now that they had Daphne, she could get in _anywhere_. Her fingertips itched. Maybe she’d need to turn the water off, after all.

 

On the sixth day after Lou left town, Daphne showed up and scared the shit out of her. Lou had given her a key for her big entrance, apparently, so when she unlocked the door at eight in the morning, Debbie rocketed out of bed and reached for the nearest thing she could use as a club.

 

“What the fuck are you gonna do with _that_?” Daphne said, taking off her sunglasses and looking up at Debbie.

 

“Jesus Christ.” Debbie put the space heater down and collapsed onto the top step. Her heart was pounding so hard it threatened to volley out of her chest. “What are you doing here?”

 

Daphne dropped her bag on the couch. “I’m bored.”

 

Debbie would rather die than admit to Daphne that she was, too. “And?”

 

“I dunno,” Daphne said, shrugging. She came up the staircase and sat down next to Debbie. “I kind of thought we would be, like, hanging out. You know. Now that we...did this thing. Or whatever.” She picked delicately at her cuticle with one scarlet-enameled fingernail.

 

It was a nice idea. Debbie couldn’t begrudge her that. The idea of all of them sitting down for big communal criminal dinners, having pajama-clad movie nights whenever they wanted, stealing a few things here and there for fun—it was cute. Like a cheerleading squad. Or the Avengers, maybe.

 

But they all had lives, after all, heist or no heist. Tammy had her husband and kids and that big-ass castle in the suburbs. Constance had bought an indoor skate park of some sort. Nine Ball was up to her eyeballs in renovations of a decrepit Hell’s Kitchen bar. Rose had been invited to Fashion Week in Paris, so naturally she was beside herself trying to prepare. Amita took off for Europe as soon as the money had hit her bank account. And Lou—

 

Yeah. She’d rather die than admit she was bored.

 

She grunted and got up. She didn’t want to hang out with Daphne. She wanted to eat pancakes and sleep and watch Netflix. What she _really_ wanted to do was steal things, big expensive things that needed elaborate plans and too much talking and Lou. But it had only taken about six seconds in prison for her to realize that she needed to make and keep her friends, and so yes, she would bite the gilded bullet and hang out with Daphne.

 

She made a face as she went down the stairs, but kept her voice friendly. “Postmates, if you want breakfast,” she said, “it’s way too soon for me to be seen with you.”

 

“I don’t eat gluten,” Daphne said brightly.

 

Debbie ended up with a pretty decent croque madame, which she ate in about three bites while Daphne picked at a porcini-shiitake scramble. Neither of them said anything.

 

“Where’s Lou?” Daphne asked at last, pushing her plate away with half her eggs still remaining.

 

Debbie brushed her hands on her pants and shrugged. “Away.”

 

Again, silence. Eventually, Daphne went into the living room and turned on the TV. It must be weird, Debbie thought, to turn on Netflix and see your face on every third movie.

 

Daphne put on Law and Order: SVU and kicked her feet up onto the ottoman. After a while, Debbie joined her.

 

***

 

She turned up at weird times. Debbie didn’t get _really_ irritated until she clattered through the front door at three AM, disheveled and giggly and blazingly drunk.

 

“You don’t live here,” Debbie yelled, throwing a pillow over the railing at her.

 

She dodged, stumbled, landed hard on her ass, and cracked up laughing. “Neither do you,” she yelled back. Debbie stomped back into her room and slammed the door, then opened it again a few minutes later when she realized Daphne probably wouldn’t have the presence of mind to lock up.

 

She was right. Daphne had passed out on the floor and was snoring lightly, her hair over her face. Debbie locked the door, tossed a blanket over Daphne, and, rolling her eyes, went back to bed.

 

***

 

She woke up to her phone ringing. She fumbled it and squinted blearily at the caller ID. Daphne.

 

“What,” she snapped.

 

“Water,” Daphne moaned.

 

She hung up. A second later, her phone rang again.

 

“ _Debbie_ ,” Daphne whined.

 

“Oh my _God_.” Debbie flung the covers back and thudded down the stairs, then jumped from the second to last step and landed as loudly as she possibly could. It was stupid and childish, but she was pissed.

 

Daphne, now on the couch, put a pillow over her head and moaned miserably.

 

Debbie went to the kitchen, found and filled a beat-up Nalgene bottle, and tossed it onto the couch. Daphne curled around it and moaned again. “ _Tap_ water,” she said into the pillow.

 

“You are an irredeemable snob,” Debbie said.

 

“My head hurts,” Daphne replied.

 

There was Tylenol above the fridge, and Gatorade in it. Debbie couldn’t explain why, but she went and got Daphne both.

 

***

 

When Debbie got back from her errands—“ _errands_ ,” she had wandered into several department stores and lifted a few things for fun—she could hear the shower running in one of the upstairs bathrooms. When Daphne came out to the living room, she was wearing one of Lou’s T-shirts and a pair of her leggings, and something in Debbie twisted painfully.

 

“You look less horrible,” Debbie said, putting her bags on the sideboard by the door.

 

“I can’t believe you still steal stuff,” Daphne said. She went over to the bags and started digging through them. “Ooh, I love this.”

 

“What makes you think I didn’t buy it?” Debbie watched Daphne pull a bright orange scarf out of an Hermès bag and drape it around her neck.

 

Daphne gave her a look. Debbie shrugged. “I’m good at it.”

 

“Can I have this?”

 

Debbie shrugged again. “Whatever.”

 

And froze when Daphne darted over, pecked her lightly on the cheek, and gave her the broadest, brightest grin Debbie had ever seen in her life.

 

“Thanks,” she chirped, and grabbed her bag, and then she was gone.

 

***

 

It was a weird little routine, and Debbie started to get used to Daphne’s frequent drop-ins. She vaguely remembered reading something about a fourteen-million-dollar penthouse on the Upper East Side, and thought that Daphne must be very lonely indeed to be hanging around with her in Lou’s grubby loft. At one point, six days went by without her wandering in, and Debbie actually almost wondered if she should call and make sure she was okay. She appeared at six AM the next morning, though, and made Debbie wonder crossly why she’d even thought about it.

 

Three weeks of this, wordlessly watching TV and eating delivered meals in silence, and then Daphne walked in on a Friday evening wearing full makeup, a black cocktail dress, and stilettos so high they made Debbie’s ankles ache just looking at them. She had an expression on her face that was—well, definitely a look, that was for sure.

 

“What’s this?” Debbie asked, looking up from her laptop.

 

Daphne came over, heel taps echoing on the hardwood floors, and gently lifted the computer from Debbie’s lap.

 

“A seduction, I think,” Daphne said, and climbed on top of her.

 

She tasted like lipstick and oranges, and Debbie pulled back at once. Acquiescing to Lou’s mid-heist crime lust was one thing. Getting kissed by an insecure starlet barely out of adolescence was entirely another. “Whoa.”

 

Daphne looked annoyed, but not abashed. “What?”

 

“What do you mean, _what_?” Debbie held up her hands, realized she didn’t know quite where to put them to extract herself, and settled for gingerly pushing Daphne off with fingertips to her waist.

 

Daphne dropped onto the couch, her lower lip pushing forward in what looked suspiciously like a pout. “Well, apparently I had my signals all crossed,” she said, looking annoyed.

 

“I’ll say.” Debbie wiped Daphne’s lipstick off her mouth. Her throat felt tight with shock. She had about ten thousand questions, none of which she could even begin to articulate, so she just said “What,” again.

 

Daphne made a face and reached for her purse. “I kind of thought you were into me,” she said, pulling out a small mirror. She glared into the mirror as she wiped her smudged lips with a fingertip. “And it’s Friday, and I thought it would be, you know. Fun.”

 

The annoyance, Debbie realized, was a very thin veil for a _very_ bruised ego. Daphne’s hands were trembling. She remembered what it was like to be—

 

“How old are you?” Debbie said.

 

Daphne looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “Twenty-eight,” she said.

 

Debbie raised her eyebrows.

 

A theatrical sigh. “Fine. Twenty-six.”

 

“I thought most celebrities lied about their age the _other_ way,” Debbie said.

 

“I’m not most celebrities.” Daphne’s voice wobbled and she scowled into her mirror.

 

 _Fuck_. Now Debbie felt bad. Daphne had succeeded in making Debbie feel bad.

 

“Sorry,” Debbie said shortly.

 

“Oh, for what?” Daphne snapped. She shoved the mirror back into her purse and zipped it closed, then got to her feet.

 

“Wait, wait, wait.” Daphne made it three steps before Debbie caught her wrist. “Just—let’s get dinner, okay?”

 

Daphne lifted her chin, her lip still jutting. “I’m not hungry.”

 

“Bullshit.” Debbie tugged her arm. Daphne made what Debbie interpreted as a pretty cursory effort to pull herself free, then tightened her lips and nodded.

 

“Fine,” she said.

 

They got Thai, and Daphne didn’t look at her. She continued not looking at her, and not speaking, until Debbie finally sighed. “Look,” she said.

 

Daphne did not look. She ate her soup as though no one else was in the room.

 

“You’re—I mean, I wouldn’t say _great_ , you’re kind of entitled and I do sort of think you live on a cloud—”

 

Daphne’s narrow gaze laser-focused on hers. “If you’re apologizing, you’re doing a bad job,” she said sharply.

 

“I’m _not_ apologizing,” Debbie said. “I don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m just _explaining_. I’m explaining that yeah, you’re really beautiful, and you’re pretty good at, you know, heist stuff, at least the stuff you did for this one, but I just—I don’t think—”

 

“This one?” Daphne interrupted.

 

Debbie stopped talking. “What?”

 

Her big doe eyes were suddenly wide. “You said _this_ _one_ ,” she said, her voice suddenly happier, hopeful. “That kind of implies there’s going to be another one.”

 

“I didn’t say that.” Although there would be, and the time until the next one kept getting shorter and shorter, at least in Debbie’s head.

 

“You think I did a good job.” Daphne sounded satisfied, now, and she was smiling.

 

Debbie rolled her eyes. “I think you were passable.”

 

“I should be affronted, but I know you’re downplaying it to look _cool_ or something.” The smile widened. “And you think I’m pretty.”

 

Debbie scowled. “I do not.”

 

“Sure you do.” That look was back, the one she’d been wearing when she opened the door. “I saw your face when I walked in.”

 

“That’s just how my face is,” Debbie said, but Daphne had scooted her chair closer, close enough that her knees were touching Debbie’s, and Debbie suddenly found that she didn’t quite have enough breath to support her words.

 

“I’m not saying we should _date_ or anything,” Daphne said, her voice low now, her crimson fingernails scratching random patterns across Debbie’s knee. “I’m just saying, it’s _Friday_.”

 

Debbie’s mouth went cotton-dry. _I_ _have_ , she thought, _lost_ _control_ _of_ _this_ _situation_. _Entirely_.

 

“You keep saying that,” she managed to squeak.

 

Daphne put her hands on Debbie’s thighs and leaned forward. Her palms burned through Debbie’s jeans. Her breath was warm and scented with lemongrass, making Debbie break out in goosebumps.

 

“What are you going to do,” she murmured, her lips brushing Debbie’s ear, “just let Lou keep yanking you around?”

 

It was bait, Daphne was fucking _baiting_ her, baiting her with Lou’s name in that sexy husky whisper, and Debbie knew it, and she fucking _took_ _it_ _anyway_.

 

“Fuck Lou,” she said, and put her hands in Daphne’s hair, and crashed furious lips against Daphne’s waiting mouth.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment...it’s writing fuel ❤️
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	2. creep

Debbie was pleasantly surprised to find that Daphne was _extremely_ good at sex. It wasn’t that Debbie was accustomed to _bad_ sex, it was just that the only person with whom she had had _consistent_ sex in recent years was Lou, and although Lou could make her come like a nuclear bomb going off, she wasn’t what Debbie would call particularly inventive. As for the others, well, she’d never gotten past the first few awkward meetings, messy clashing of this against that, neither party totally sure what the other one liked. She didn’t count Claude, because he was the worst.

 

Daphne, though.

 

Daphne literally did approach sex like it was something fun to do on a Friday. Once she’d kissed Debbie into basically a boneless idiot in the kitchen, she’d wrapped her hands around Debbie’s wrists and hauled her to her feet and pretty much _skipped_ into the bedroom. Lou was always so intense, so much so that it sometimes actually hurt, but Daphne was all soft edges. She made noises like a cat, hums and purrs, wrapping herself like lazy velvet around Debbie’s bemused and thrumming body. And that _mouth_...

 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Debbie said, propping herself up on her elbows.

 

Daphne’s grin got wider, her full lips wet and shining. “Yeah?” she said delightedly. She tilted her head and fuck if she wasn’t actually cute, nestled between Debbie’s thighs, her hair falling into her face and those wide eyes bright and happy. As though Debbie’s breathless acknowledgment of Daphne’s performance in the sack meant more to her than the Oscar she’d won last year.

 

“Oh, you know _yeah_ ,” Debbie said, feeling embarrassed, suddenly. She looked away.

 

“Mm.” Daphne pulled herself up, sliding up Debbie’s body, and Debbie let out a little moan despite herself. “Don’t get _shy_ , Debbie, I didn’t think you’d be the type to be _shy_.” And then she was reaching for the headboard, her knees on either side of Debbie’s head, and Jesus _fuck_ she was still wearing the stilettos.

 

Debbie looked up at her, past the slick wet curls by her chin, past the pale stomach and ridiculously perfect breasts. Daphne must have seen something in Debbie’s expression, because her smile turned downright devilish.

 

“I’ve been waiting for this,” she said, lowering herself onto Debbie’s lips. She gasped when her clit hit Debbie’s tongue, and her breath hitched as she started to move. She kept her gaze on Debbie’s. “Don’t fuck it up.”

 

Debbie was pretty sure she did not fuck it up. Daphne took as good as she gave, rocking herself to no fewer than three orgasms on Debbie’s hard-toiling mouth. After the first one, Debbie gave up virtue altogether and rubbed herself off with one hand while Daphne shrieked and moaned above her.

 

“Oh, _baby_ ,” Daphne breathed, and Debbie was pretty sure it was more an involuntary verbal eruption than an actual term of endearment. They had known each other for less than six months, after all. She collapsed to one side, burrowing luxuriously into the blankets, stretching legs and arms in all directions. “That was nice.”

 

Debbie wiped her mouth. “Thanks for the note.”

 

“You’re so _serious_ all the time.” Daphne rolled over, wrapping one arm languidly around Debbie’s waist. She kissed her way up Debbie’s throat to her mouth. “Lighten up.”

 

“I’m light,” Debbie said indignantly. “I’m featherweight. I’m capable of lightening.”

 

“Ha,” Daphne said, but she wasn’t paying attention, not really. Her makeup was smeared all over the place and she seemed to remember this when she saw the lipstick on Debbie’s neck. “Ugh. I’ll be right back.”

 

She expected Daphne to wander off to another guest room, or even leave. Lou would smile at her, sometimes even kiss her goodnight, but she never stayed. Lou was an enveloping blaze in Debbie’s bed, the antithesis of cuddling. Daphne was a warm glow. She crawled back in and went to sleep.

 

Debbie stayed awake.

 

Her tossing and turning didn’t seem to perturb Daphne, who slumbered on, heavy-limbed and mouth agape. Debbie finally drifted off after twenty minutes of Instagram, twenty minutes of Buzzfeed quizzes, and an hour of browsing the Neiman Marcus new arrivals. Her sleep was deep and dreamless.

 

***

 

When Debbie opened her eyes, sunlight was sneaking around the draperies and Daphne was playing on her phone.

 

“I thought you said you were a morning person,” she said, not looking up from her text messages.

 

Debbie rubbed her eyes. “I am,” she said. She was a little startled and a lot bewildered by Daphne’s continued presence in her bed. She was accustomed, from Lou, from Terrible Claude, from the handful of lovers she’d had pre-prison, to solitary mornings: rising before her partner and dressing in the dark, closing the door carefully so the latch wouldn’t click. Or, rarely, finding herself in an empty bed. She wasn’t used to waking up with someone else.

 

“I have a lunch date,” Daphne said, her thumbs flying over the screen. She glanced at Debbie out of the corner of her eye, as though gauging Debbie’s reaction.

 

“Okay.” Debbie wasn’t totally sure how to respond. Did Daphne want her to care, and furthermore, why did she care if Daphne wanted her to care?

 

Surprisingly, Daphne seemed to find her neutral reply completely acceptable. She put her phone on the nightstand, then smiled broadly and rolled toward Debbie, one hand working its way between Debbie’s thighs. “I have a couple hours,” she said.

 

***

 

Daphne didn’t come back to the loft until two days later, this time in yoga pants and a peculiar, poncho-shaped turtleneck. She hopped on one foot, wriggling out of her rain boots with a paper bag of artisan tacos clenched between her teeth.

 

“Give me that before you chip a tooth,” Debbie said, reaching for the bag. “That smile is worth more than this house.”

 

“Aw.” Daphne tossed the second rain boot in the direction of the shoe rack, sending water everywhere, and flopped onto the couch. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

 

They watched The Score and Debbie pointed out all the inaccuracies while Daphne picked lettuce shreds out of the couch cushions.

 

“I forgot to ask,” Debbie said, when the credits started rolling, “how was your date?”

 

Daphne scrunched up her nose and shrugged. “It was okay. The photographers showed up, so we cut it short.”

 

“Mm.” Debbie closed the movie and scrolled through other titles without really reading them. She was curious despite herself. What kind of person, she wondered, did Daphne Kluger date?

 

Daphne was watching her, her back very straight, her expression interrogative. “Do you mind?” she asked.

 

Debbie’s thumb stilled on the remote. “Mind?”

 

“Yeah,” Daphne said. Her lips thinned out in a perturbed little frown. “Like, because we slept together.”

 

Debbie put the remote on the couch cushion between them and thought about it. Daphne had grown on her in the past couple of weeks. She would even go so far as to say that she _liked_ Daphne. She was a little superficial, sure, and she didn’t always consider her words before she said them, but overall she was a pretty solid friend. That she was really great in bed was sort of a bonus.

 

“I’m not really—I don’t really do commitments,” Debbie said at last, internally wincing, hoping that Daphne wouldn’t give her the kicked-puppy eyes again.

 

Daphne let out a whoosh of breath and a bubble of laughter. “Thank God,” she said, sounding relieved.

 

Debbie gaped at her. “Then what was with the pouting?”

 

Daphne shrugged, undaunted. “I thought you didn’t think I was pretty,” she said.

 

Well. Maybe this would be okay after all.

 

***

 

It quickly became apparent that when Daphne showed up in glam, Debbie was going to get laid. It was kind of sweet, actually, that Daphne put that much effort into her appearance just to roll around in Debbie’s queen bed. She never gave any indication prior to just showing up, so Debbie started putting on a little more makeup every day, so things wouldn’t feel quite so uneven. She felt a little silly doing it, getting dressed up on the chance that Daphne would appear, say, entirely in Chanel, but she felt a ridiculous little thrill when Daphne took in her makeup and outfit, growled “oh my _God_ you look hot” and stroked her to orgasm against the refrigerator.

 

She brought over scarves one time, the orange Hermès one and a few more besides, wrapping them around Debbie’s wrists and binding her loosely to the bedposts. That had been a fun afternoon. And there were feathers, and hot wax, and about eight different brightly-colored dildos. Daphne was fun. Daphne was really, _really_ fun.

 

And then Debbie got a text from Lou, and things sort of went to shit.


	3. kick your game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well, my brain is sort of addled from being on a newborn schedule, so please forgive my delay in updating. also, if you see inaccuracies, please please let me know!

It wasn’t actually a text. It was a photo. One photo, sent at four in the morning, and Debbie’s heart dropped to her feet.

 

She called Daphne from a throwaway Skype account. “You can’t come over. Like, ever again,” she said.

 

“What?” Daphne sounded annoyed. “Why not?”

 

Debbie sent her the picture. There was a pause, then: “Oh fuck.”

 

“Yeah, _oh fuck._ ” Debbie minimized the Skype window and Googled. “It looks like that’s the only one. So far.”

 

“Maybe no one saw it,” Daphne said, but her voice was small and worried.

 

“Let’s hope so.”

 

Another pause. “Is Lou mad?” Daphne whispered.

 

Debbie rolled her eyes. “I can’t imagine she’s thrilled,” she said, and immediately regretted her tone. Daphne was young, she was an _actress_ , not a career criminal. It wasn’t her fault she was followed by paparazzi twenty hours a day.

 

Daphne made a tiny distressed noise, and Skype chimed with the end of the call. Debbie called her back, but she didn’t pick up.

 

***

 

After three more unsuccessful attempts to talk to Daphne, Debbie gave up and left a voicemail. Then she walked down to the bodega on the corner and bought a copy of _Dazzle._ It was a crap celebrity magazine, even less credible than _OK!_ or _Star_ , but that didn’t loosen the knot of dismay that had coiled, tight and icy, in the pit of Debbie’s stomach. There, on page sixteen, under the words _Who Looked Better?_ was a photo of Daphne in the poncho turtleneck. She was on the sidewalk outside of what was clearly Lou’s loft.

 

And behind her, standing in the open front doorway, a fond smile on her face, was Debbie.

 

***

Lou didn’t pick up her phone at ten, or noon, or four PM. At eight, Debbie heard the key turn in the lock. She doubted it was Daphne, so there was really only one other person it could be.

 

“I know you aren’t this stupid,” Lou said, dropping her satchel by the door, “so I’d really love to know what the _fuck_ you were thinking.”

 

“Look,” Debbie said, coming toward Lou with her hands spread, beseeching, “it’s not that bad, it was just—”

 

“ _Not that bad_ ?” Icicles hung from Lou’s words. “Did you think _prison_ was _not that bad,_ too?”

 

“It’ll be off the shelf next week,” Debbie said, but the words sounded inadequate, even to her.

 

“Do I need to tell you what happens if the wrong person sees that picture?” Lou seized Debbie by the upper arms. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with fury. “This is _my fucking house,_ Deb. You could not have been more identifiable. _Jesus.”_ She let go and turned her back, her shoulders stiff and trembling with rage.

 

Debbie never apologized. Never. She planned, she thought things through, her actions were justifiable pretty much one hundred percent of the time. If other people got upset about it, that was their problem.

 

In this situation, she could kind of see where she might have made a misstep or two.

 

The words tasted sour and they twisted in her mouth, but she got them out. “It was a mistake,” she said.

 

Lou was halfway to the kitchen. She stopped.

 

“You’re damn right it was,” she said tightly.

 

“I’ll fix it,” Debbie said, which was a stupid thing to add, because she had absolutely no idea how to do that.

 

Lou turned around. “Six months,” she said.

 

Debbie cringed. “I know.”

 

“ _Six. Months._ ”

 

“I said I fucking know!”

 

Lou’s head moved back about eight inches. Her eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she said. “Oh, no, you do not get to _snap_ at me, Debra.”

 

Debbie was not like this. She _planned_ , goddamn it. Words did not get away from her like they had twice already today. “I’m sorry,” she said, but the damage was done.

 

“Get out of my house,” Lou said softly.

 

Debbie opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I—what?”

 

“You heard me.” That same deadly-quiet voice.

 

Debbie’s chest clenched like a fist. She took a step back. She tried to meet Lou's gaze, but Lou wouldn't look at her.

 

Her purse was by the door. It was the only thing she took.

 

***

 

She Ubered to the Park Hyatt, made it halfway across the lobby, then turned around. A nine-hundred-dollar a night room would undoubtedly draw attention if anyone investigating their case saw that photo. She relocated to a nice Kimpton in Midtown.

 

She’d missed the wine reception, but the young man at the front desk gave her a bottle of white anyway. She took it to her room and drank the entire thing, slowly, in the dark, and passed out sometime after three AM.

 

***

 

She woke up with eyes that felt like sandpaper and made it to the bathroom just in time. When she’d finished puking, she stuck her head under the sink faucet, gulped a lot of water way too fast, and immediately threw up again. She grabbed the ice bucket on the way back to bed and held it until she fell back asleep.

 

***

 

When she opened her eyes the second time, it was after ten and although she still felt pretty lousy, her headache no longer made her feel like dying. She would have to go back to Lou’s to get her clothes, obviously. Having many, many millions of dollars in the bank did not mean one had to be wasteful with one’s already-acquired designer wardrobe. Plus, her computer was there, and she had _plans_ on that.

 

“I distinctly remember kicking you out,” Lou said coolly, not looking up from her tablet.

 

“Needed my stuff,” Debbie said.

 

She was folding a Galliano top into her suitcase when her bedroom door opened. Debbie thought she had seen all of Lou’s moods, but she didn’t recognize this one. Then again, Lou had never evicted her before.

 

“I need you to know how colossally foolish you are,” Lou said. Her expression was flat, her tone unnaturally even.

 

“So you’ve said,” Debbie replied, reaching for a pair of socks and mashing them into a side pocket.

 

“We said six months for a reason.”

 

“Yeah,” Debbie said. She had to walk around Lou to get to the closet, and as she passed, Lou sidestepped so quickly Debbie crashed right into her.

 

Lou’s face was an inch from hers, her fingers biting into Debbie’s hip. She took a little breath, as though she was going to say something else, and then her mouth was on Debbie’s.

 

Oh, what the fuck.

 

It wasn’t that she and Lou _never_ kissed. After sex, sometimes, and first thing in the morning after a job gone well. But never like this, never with Lou’s hand tangled painfully in her hair and her tongue pushing angrily past Debbie’s lips. Debbie’s brain shorted out momentarily; she kissed back, confused, her breath knotted in her chest and her heart pounding out to her fingertips.

 

Her entire life lately, it seemed, was a series of _pouncings_ , and although she didn’t _object,_ necessarily (this was a very strange development, to be sure, but possibly meant that Lou was no longer pissed at her?), she did sort of wish she had some kind of heads-up from time to time. She _planned,_ damn it.

 

The hand in her hair tightened, and she realized that Lou was steering her toward the bed.  She pulled back, gasping. “Lou—”

 

Lou’s pale eyes were bright and burning. Her cheeks were flushed, her lip pulled up in what was almost a snarl. Debbie realized it in a nanosecond.

 

Lou was _jealous_.

 

Something lit in Debbie’s belly, fierce and incandescent. She reached for Lou’s face with both hands and brought her back in.  

 

“If you wanted me,” she mumbled against Lou’s mouth between kisses, “all you had to do was ask.”

 

“Will you shut the _fuck_ up,” Lou growled, pressing her backwards.

 

Debbie’s calves hit the bed and she sat down hard, pulling Lou down on top of her. “Yes ma’am,” she managed to say, dragging her lips across Lou’s throat. She sank her teeth into the soft flesh where neck met shoulder and felt a wave of vicious satisfaction when Lou hissed and curled against her.

 

Debbie planned, and Lou executed. That was how they pulled jobs, that was how they fucked. Lou was composed, contained, even in the throes of climax. She moved. Debbie reacted.

 

 _Not today_ , Debbie thought.

 

When Lou grabbed her by the wrists and pinned her to the bed, Debbie wriggled free. She saw the surprise on Lou’s face, a flash of shock as she seized Lou’s waist and flipped her onto her back.

 

Daphne, she thought, had been surprisingly instructive on the subject of sex. She caught Lou’s wandering hand and pulled it away from her breast.

 

“Wait,” she mumbled into the curve of Lou’s neck, and licked her way up to Lou’s ear. By the time she got there, Lou was gasping.

 

“ _What_ \--” she said, but Debbie clamped her mouth over Lou’s before she could get any further. She knocked the hand away again and pulled Lou’s leggings down over her hips.

 

“I said wait,” she said, and unbuttoned Lou’s shirt.

 

Lou was brisk, usually, businesslike: half the time she didn’t even take the time to completely disrobe. She’d bring herself off with one of Debbie’s thighs slotted between hers, rocking herself to a silent, breathless orgasm. She took her time with Debbie, and Debbie let her. That was the way they’d always been.

 

Debbie wasn’t actually expecting Lou to listen when she said _wait_ , but to her surprise, Lou did. Debbie thought about Daphne, languorous and supple, telling her in no uncertain terms _what_ and _where (_ and, occasionally, _how_ ), and she stopped planning. Lou’s breath came fast and uneven, and when Debbie took a moment and looked up at her, she had her eyes shut tight and her lips clamped shut.

 

 _Relax_ , Debbie wanted to say, and instead set about plying the tension from Lou’s body with her mouth.

 

How could she not have _noticed_ , for all these years, the birdlike curve of Lou’s ribs, the soft swell of her lower stomach, the downy hair at the tops of her thighs? She nestled her tongue into the little dip between Lou’s hipbone and her belly button and that was what did it. Lou let out a sound that was half moan, half agonized gasp, and then her hands were in Debbie’s hair and she was bucking up against Debbie’s mouth.

 

So Debbie did it again, and again, and before long Lou was making noises Debbie had _never_ heard her make before. She moved her mouth from hip to stomach and down, and she felt the throb of heat at her core intensify when Lou parted her knees and hooked a leg up over Debbie’s shoulder. She was slick and swollen, and it took all of Debbie’s self-control not to dive in nose-first.

 

She worked one inner thigh first, and then the other, dizzily grinding herself to near-climax against the rumpled comforter as Lou arched and moaned beneath her. Lou’s fingertips bit almost painfully into her shoulders.

 

“Debbie, damn it--” Her voice cracked.

 

“Okay, okay,” Debbie said into Lou’s pink-splotched skin, and ran the flat of her tongue up and over Lou’s swollen flesh. She was salt and sweet, so _undone_ that Debbie went stupid with lust, and when Lou gritted out her name and clutched at her, she thrust helplessly at the comforter and came almost immediately.

 

That was _certainly_ not part of the plan.

 

It put her off her stride for a moment, and Lou’s fingers tightened impatiently on her shoulders, but she was nothing if not adaptable. _Concentrate_ , damn it, she thought, catching her rhythm again, and before long she recognized the signs. Lou was stiffening beneath her, her breath coming fast and shallow, her fingers taut and tapping on Debbie’s skin. Debbie slowed down, backed off, but when Lou gasped “oh come _on_ ” in a voice that was thin and pleading with want, she abandoned finesse and just fucking _went for it_.

 

It took, by Debbie’s admittedly clouded estimation, less than thirty seconds for Lou to tense and clench and come, pulsating against Debbie’s lips and tongue as she let out a long openmouthed groan that, Debbie was pleased to note, she didn’t even _try_ to contain.

 

She stilled her tongue as Lou’s orgasm subsided, but kept her mouth there until Lou wriggled and pulled away.

 

“To be clear,” Lou said breathlessly, one arm thrown over her eyes, “I am still fucking pissed at you.”

 

Debbie pressed a leisurely kiss to the inside of Lou’s knee, then rolled off of her and got to her feet. Lou moved her arm, uncovering one mascara-smudged eye to watch her. She looked, to Debbie, as though she was trying not to smile.

 

Debbie tugged her shirt into place and let herself grin. “I’d be disappointed if you weren’t,” she said, and headed to the kitchen to make lunch.

  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, I didn't forget about Daphne...we'll sort that out soon :)  
> if you're enjoying the story (or are not enjoying, and have constructive criticisms, because that is also important!), please consider leaving a comment! :)


	4. diggin’ on you

Lou came into the kitchen as Debbie was sliding the second grilled cheese from skillet to plate. 

 

“Am I still kicked out?” Debbie asked, pushing a sandwich across the table and peeking at Lou out of the corner of her eye.

 

Lou picked up the sandwich and dropped it immediately, wincing and shaking her burned fingers.

 

“Hot,” Debbie said mildly.

 

“Yeah, thanks.” Lou stretched and wiped her hand on the seat of Debbie’s jeans. 

 

“That top looks nice on you.” Debbie dropped into the chair next to Lou and plucked at the Galliano T-shirt that Lou had apparently pulled out of Debbie’s suitcase. “You should keep it.” 

 

“I’ll get it from your closet if I want it,” Lou said. She picked up her sandwich and took a bite.

 

“Then I’m not kicked out.” 

 

A shrug. Lou chewed and swallowed primly before replying. “It may have been a rash decision to turn you loose without warning.”

 

“For me?” Debbie raised her eyebrows.

 

Lou gave her a deprecating look. “For the rest of the world.”

 

“So I’m forgiven?” Debbie asked around a bite of grilled cheese.

 

Lou made a face. “Ugh. No. And don’t talk with your mouth full, it’s disgusting.” 

 

Debbie thought. John had friends in publishing, if they could pull the magazine-- “I can make some calls, maybe--”

 

“ _ No _ .” Lou held up a hand. “Just stop  _ doing _ things, Deb. Lay low and quit fraternizing with A-listers.”

 

So. It was back to being bored on Lou’s couch. But Lou was recognizable again, at least, and that was a good thing. And Daphne--well, a phone call to smooth things over wasn’t  _ fraternizing _ . This wouldn’t be a big deal. Claude was in jail. No one had any proof she’d done anything wrong. 

 

Yes. This was fine.

 

Lou’s phone chimed. Debbie looked over, but Lou was unfolding from the chair, phone in hand, before Debbie could see the screen. No matter. If something went down as a result of the photo, Lou would tell her. 

 

“What’s wrong?” The words were out of Debbie’s mouth before she could stop them, because Lou’s shoulders had gone rigid as she texted. 

 

“Nothing.” Lou didn’t look up from her phone. 

 

“Hey. What.” Debbie put down the rest of her sandwich and followed Lou into the living room. 

 

Lou pulled her phone away from Debbie’s reaching hand. “Quit, nosy.”

 

“Is it about the picture?” Debbie made another swing and this time Lou caught her wrist and pulled her close. 

 

“I told you,” she said, her lips brushing Debbie’s ear, “it’s nothing.”

 

Debbie shivered, closing her eyes at the hot press of Lou’s body against hers. She didn’t believe it, of course. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the moment.

 

***

She called Daphne that night, after Lou had gone to the club.

 

Daphne picked up on the second ring. “You were kind of mean to me,” she said by way of greeting. She sounded sullen.

 

“I know,” Debbie said. “I’m sorry.” Jesus. Two apologies in as many days. What was  _ happening _ to her?

 

“Are we in trouble?” A hint of nervousness crept into Daphne’s voice. 

 

Debbie sighed. “I don’t think so. Maybe. Probably not.” 

 

“That’s not a very good answer,” Daphne said. “What are you doing right now?”

 

“I’m…” Debbie paused. “I’m on house arrest.”

 

“Really?” Daphne said, surprised. “But the paparazzi aren’t following  _ you _ .” 

 

“I was told to lay low,” Debbie said slowly. She was starting to feel something strange and uncomfortable, something as annoying as a pebble in her shoe, something that felt suspiciously like guilt. Which made absolutely no sense because she had told Daphne, had told her  _ right up front _ , that she didn’t do commitments. And Daphne had been  _ happy _ about that, because Daphne didn’t either. 

 

But something about talking to the woman she’d been sleeping with while curled on the couch in pajamas and fuzzy socks felt extremely and alarmingly  _ domestic _ . And talking to her not eight hours after pretty phenomenal sex with Lou felt--

 

Yeah. That was definitely guilt.

 

Shit. She was going to have to come clean. 

 

“Meet me somewhere,” she said.

 

She could almost  _ hear _ Daphne brighten. “Really?” she said, her voice tilting up.

 

“Yes, really,” Debbie said. “If you can shake the Dazzle photographers. I’ll get there first.”

 

“Ooh, a dangerous liaison.”  Daphne sounded delighted. “I like it. Maybe I’ll be delivered there in a suitcase like Taylor.”

 

“ _ Don’t _ you dare,” Debbie said, because she still wasn’t entirely sure if there was anything Daphne wouldn’t try. “Just text me an address and I’ll leave now.”

 

“Right, right, fine.” Daphne sounded distracted. “Just wait a second...here.”

 

Debbie’s phone buzzed. Daphne had texted her--

 

“This is a diner,” Debbie said.

 

“We’re not meeting there, duh,” Daphne said. “I’ll send a car. Just trust me.”

 

Debbie sighed again. “See you soon.”

 

***

She was at the diner for fewer than three minutes when a black Town Car pulled up and a gray-haired man wearing a suit and a friendly smile stepped out.

 

“You have  _ got _ to be kidding me,” Debbie muttered.

 

“Ms. Ocean,” the man said. He opened the back door. “I’m Roy.”

 

“Unbelievable,” Debbie said. 

 

They drove to the Upper East Side. Certainly Daphne wasn’t taking her to  _ her _ apartment? But they stopped just shy of her address and pulled into the secured parking garage of another tall, expensive-looking apartment building. 

 

“Fifty-fifth floor,” Roy said as she exited, pointing to an elevator. 

 

The elevator doors were art deco, the interior lit with blue. There was a keypad near the button panel, and Debbie entered the code Daphne had sent her. She considered, idly, as the elevator rose, the various ways this building might be broken into. Not that she would steal from a  _ person _ . No, stealing from an institution was much more fun. 

 

The elevator dinged and slid to a halt at the fifty-fifth floor. The doors opened, and Debbie stepped into the marble-floored foyer of an apartment that made her seriously consider her institutions-only policy. 

 

“Uh,” she said, as the elevator doors shut behind her, “hello?”

 

“In here,” Daphne called, from somewhere down a long hall on the left.

 

Debbie passed four doors. “Marco,” she said.

 

The next door was open, and Daphne’s voice floated out. “Polo.”

 

“This is.” Debbie looked around the bedroom, white-carpeted and massive, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a four-poster bed that somehow looked bigger than a king. “Nice.”

 

Daphne got up from a hot pink loveseat in the corner of the room. “Right?” she said. She was wearing something long and rose-colored and diaphanous, cut to her navel and gathered at the wrists. It looked like a nightgown Debbie’s mother might have worn in the seventies, if Debbie’s mother had been an exorbitantly wealthy Manhattan socialite. Daphne’s lipstick was hot pink, too. She was wearing fake eyelashes. 

 

Well.

 

“It’s Ariana’s second condo,” Daphne said, winding gossamer-wrapped arms around Debbie’s neck. Her perfumed lips grazed Debbie’s. “And she said we can use it…” Her voice dropped to a purr. “Whenever--” her thumbnail scraped the inner whorl of Debbie’s ear-- “we want.”

 

So this was what it felt like to completely lose control of one’s personal life, Debbie thought, as Daphne’s lips made their lazy way down her neck and over her collarbone. The filmy nightgown slipped between Debbie’s fingers like water.

“Oh, yeah.” Daphne’s voice was a low, lustful giggle. She twisted, turned, her back suddenly against Debbie’s stomach. She covered Debbie’s hands with her own and slid them over her stomach, her breasts. “ _ Yeah _ .” She sighed, tipping her head back, her dark hair falling over Debbie’s shoulder. 

 

It was conceivable that Debbie could have missed it. If Daphne hadn’t moved like that, hadn’t turned Debbie toward the opposite corner of the room; if Debbie hadn’t tilted her head to kiss Daphne’s jaw; if she hadn’t smiled into Daphne’s skin, and sighed, and looked up at the small bookcase beside the furthest window from the bed--

 

But Debbie didn’t miss it.

 

She froze, her skin going cold. Daphne felt it at once, of course. “What?” she said, lifting her head, following Debbie’s gaze, and then she saw it too. “Oh. Shit.”

 

There, on the very bottom shelf of the bookcase, pushed all the way to the back and half in shadow, was a mask. It was a cheap plastic Halloween mask with a flimsy elastic band, the kind that gets all breath-fogged and chemically humid when you wear it. It was, Debbie knew, a rabbit’s face. There was a crack in the chin where Debbie had stepped on it. 

 

The backs of Debbie’s hands were cool, suddenly. Daphne had pulled away and was stepping out of Debbie’s embrace.

 

“I can explain,” she said, but her voice wobbled, and Debbie didn’t think she could, in fact, explain very much at all. .

 

Something in Debbie’s chest went hard. She turned away. “What’s to explain?” she said.

 

“Look,” Daphne said from behind her, “it was before you and I--I mean, it was a while ago. I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

 

She’d been in prison for five and a half years. Of course there would be others. Hell,  _ she’d _ had others. They always had, both of them. That was how they were. It didn’t mean anything. 

 

They’d come clean to Daphne halfway through April. It was July. 

 

She remembered, suddenly: Daphne damp-haired and hung over, in Lou’s T-shirt and leggings. She had a key. She had a fucking  _ key _ . Her small, scared voice: “Is Lou mad?” Debbie had thought she’d meant about the  _ exposure _ , not about the fact that Debbie was--was what, fucking her girlfriend? 

 

Lou always came to Debbie after a job.  _ Always _ . 

 

“Debbie.” Daphne’s hand was on her arm. Her brown eyes were big and worried. “Are you okay?”

 

Debbie was not okay. Debbie was not okay  _ at fucking all _ . 

 

She pulled her arm out of Daphne’s grasp. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice even and calm and alien. “But I think it’s time for me to go home.”

  
***  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roy is on loan from Miranda Priestly XD


	5. case of the fake people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which there are Feelings

Home? _Home_? Lou’s loft. Jesus fucking Christ. Debbie felt sick.

 

“Okay, listen.” Daphne’s voice was still uneven--she sounded so _young_ , what the fuck was Debbie doing with someone so _young?_ \--but it steeled as she spoke, and she ducked into Debbie’s field of view so persistently that Debbie turned almost an entire three hundred and sixty degrees trying to avoid her gaze. “Stop it,” she added, still trying to meet Debbie’s eyes.

 

Debbie stopped turning and looked at the wall behind Daphne’s head. She didn’t reply.

 

“Listen,” Daphne said again. Then, irritated: “Will you _look_ at me, please?”

 

Debbie dragged her eyes away from the pop art over the bed and looked at her. She was worried, and nervous, and scared, but underneath all that, Debbie saw the same grim determination that had been there the day Daphne had dragged a panicking Rose through Lou’s door and demanded to know what in the everloving _fuck_ was going on.

 

“ _Thank_ you,” Daphne said. She wrapped her hand firmly around Debbie's wrist and pulled her over to the bed. “Sit down.”

 

Debbie stiffened. “I don’t want to--”

 

“Just sit the fuck down,” Daphne snapped, sounding so uncharacteristically sharp that Debbie sat down purely out of surprise.

 

Daphne sat next to her, pulling her feet up underneath herself and leaning toward Debbie. “It was right after I met all of you,” she said, and Debbie held up a hand, because if she had to hear the details of Lou’s first tryst with Daphne, she might actually puke.

 

But Daphne’s set her shoulders and kept talking. “I was going to Claude’s, and I was going to send the picture, and I was _nervous_ , okay? Like, I think that’s a pretty good reason to be nervous.” She reached up and pulled Debbie’s hand out of her face. “And I knew what the _plan_ was, but I had to, you know, figure out how to _execute_ it--”

 

Ah, yes. Debbie planned. Lou executed.

 

“So she just came over here, and she was wearing that stupid mask to make me laugh, I guess, because I must have sounded pretty bad, and...and we talked it through. What I would do and where I would go and just--It was just talking.” Daphne’s words came faster, as though she was forcing them out. “And after it was over, I just needed--there was so much _riding_ on that, and I hadn’t fucked it up, you know? And then it was done, and I felt...I felt…”

 

She trailed off, but she didn’t need to explain _that_ part. Debbie was well-acquainted with the full-body blush of a job done right, the giddy jubilation that made you want to grab the nearest co-conspirator and fuck her brains out for a week straight. 

 

Daphne was looking at her hands. “So Lou came over again, and I just--we--”

 

“Please,” Debbie said, and it came out a lot less snide and a lot more pleading than she’d intended. “No details.”

 

“No.” Daphne twisted her fingers together in her lap. “It was just the once. I called her, but I think...I think she felt bad.” She looked up at Debbie. “I think she felt bad because of you.”

 

Like a fucking dagger to Debbie’s heart. She tried not to wince. This whole thing was--this was insane. This was ridiculous, so fucking _stupid_ , and yet it _hurt_. It hurt like nothing had hurt in a very, very long time. To her shock, she felt tears pricking her eyes, and she blinked hard to keep them from gathering.

 

“I’m really sorry.” Daphne’s voice was almost a whisper now. “I came over because I thought she’d be there, but you were there, and just…” She bit her lip. “I liked you. I like you. I like Lou, too.”

 

Debbie took several long, deep breaths before she spoke. Finally, with a throat that felt like she had been shotgunning sand, she said: “What exactly are you trying to say?”

 

Daphne stood up and walked over to the enormous windows. The city lit her from below, the curves and planes of her body visible in silhouette beneath the sheer pink gown. She looked every inch an actress playing the role of her life.

 

She seemed to realize it, the drama of her pose against the window, and she let her folded arms uncross. She came back over to the bed, kicking the carpet with her bare feet as she walked. “That lunch date was with Constance,” she said, apropos of nothing, her tone suddenly lighter.

 

“You’re losing me,” Debbie said. Was she supposed to be surprised? The six month no-contact rule had been for the ex-cons in their group only--so pretty much just her. There was no such embargo on Constance.

 

Daphne dropped back onto the mattress next to Debbie and sprawled on her back, her arms above her head. “I just wanted to see if you’d be jealous,” she said.

 

“Why would I be jealous of _Constance_?” The hurt and humiliation were being rapidly replaced by frank confusion.

 

“Not Constance. Of just, you know, someone else.” Daphne hazarded a glance at Debbie. “And you weren’t, and that was good, I thought.”

 

Debbie opened her mouth, couldn’t think of a damned thing to say, and closed it again.

 

“I went to lunch with Constance because I wanted her advice,” Daphne added. She worried her lower lip again, sucking it between her teeth and letting it slide slowly back out. “About relationships.”

 

“You wanted _Constance’s_ opinion on-- _Constance_?” Were they talking about the same Constance? Skater punk Constance of the random non-sequiturs and pop culture references?

 

“Yeah.” Daphne gave her a look like she was an idiot. “She’s been with the same guys for, like, three years.”

 

“Same--” Debbie blinked. “What?”

 

The _you’re-an-idiot_ expression intensified by magnitudes. “The Chrises? Chris and Chris? The boyfriends? Do you listen to _anything_ anybody else says?”

 

“Apparently not,” Debbie said, trying to remember if Constance had ever said anything about anyone named Chris, or a second anyone named Chris, or having two boyfriends at the same time. She came up empty.

 

“Anyway.” Daphne looked as though she couldn’t believe she was having to explain this from the beginning. “They’re, you know, a _throuple._ ”

 

“You forget I spent five years in prison,” Debbie said dryly.

 

“It’s _exactly_ what it sounds like,” Daphne said less-than-patiently. “I just wanted to talk to her about it, because, you know, I like Lou, and I like you, and clearly you two are--” She waved one hand in the air and let it flop back on the bed. “Gaga for each other, and--”

 

Debbie suddenly realized exactly what Daphne was saying. Her spine snapped ramrod straight. “Daphne.”

 

Daphne studiously avoided her gaze. “Yeah.”

 

“You were planning to propose that you and I--that you and _Lou--_ ”

 

“I wasn’t planning anything,” Daphne said, scowling at the ceiling. “I just wanted to _talk about it_ to someone. It was just…” She stumbled. “It was just something to think about.”

 

Two spots as pink as her lipstick had appeared high on her cheeks. Her eyes were bright, her jaw tense.

 

 _It’s Friday_ , she had said, that first time.

 

Daphne wasn’t like Debbie. She wasn’t like Lou, either. She didn’t have walls like they did. She didn’t scheme, or plan, or execute. She did things because she wanted to. Because they were fun. She tried things. She _dared_.

 

And Debbie respected the hell out of that.

 

She looked at Daphne, motionless except for the small shallow movements of her breath as she waited for Debbie’s response.

 

She put her hand gently on Daphne’s stomach, felt the muscles there relax as Daphne exhaled and closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

 

“I have to talk to Lou,” she said, and Daphne nodded, and covered Debbie’s hand with hers.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is how I see it: Debbie and Lou are both so guarded and closed-off from their respective life experiences that they need someone like Daphne to make them remember that feelings are a thing and that they are not always bad. She's the catalyst for a reaction that otherwise might not ever happen. It's funny because this was not at ALL how I intended this fic to go (like, heist wives forever, okay)...but my Debbie and Lou just can't get there on their own. they need some help. So thanks for bearing with me. I really, really appreciate it <3


	6. crazysexycool: interlude

Daphne didn’t really say much after that, and after a while Debbie took the elevator down to the garage, walked a few blocks south, and caught an Uber back to Lou’s loft. Lou wasn’t home yet, so Debbie settled on the couch to wait.

 

She didn’t have to wait long.

 

Lou came in looking tired and crabby, and Debbie wondered for a moment why she maintained the club when all it seemed to do was cause her stress.

 

“It would be one thing if they were stealing _smart,_ ” she sighed, sinking onto the couch next to Debbie, “but they’re swiping the bottles they’ve already watered down.” She curled on her side and put her head on Debbie’s thigh.

 

Debbie put her hand in Lou’s hair and smoothed it, and for all her planning, for all her agility, she couldn’t for the life of her figure out how to broach this topic with Lou. She thought for so long, trying and rejecting different opening lines in her head, that she thought Lou had fallen asleep.

 

But then: “Just say what you’re thinking, Deb, Jesus.”

 

She looked down. Lou was looking up at her, blue eyes twinkling with amusement under her bangs.

 

“Cogs in that head are getting clunky,” Lou added. “I can hear them from here.”

 

Debbie closed her eyes. “I saw Daphne tonight,” she said.

 

She actually _felt_ the mirth drain out of Lou’s body. Lou’s whole body tensed, coiling into the couch like a snake ready to strike.

 

“Oh?” she said, her voice falsely, deliberately light.

 

They could dance around this forever and Debbie still wouldn’t be able to say it, so she just _said_ it. “When were you going to tell me?”

 

Lou sat up, her expression gone narrow and dangerous. “I didn’t think I had to,” she said.

 

“Would have been nice to know,” Debbie said, “when she showed up here looking for you and found me.”

 

“Yeah, well, she didn’t seem to have a problem with the substitution, did she?” Lou snapped. “Neither did you, apparently.”

 

Debbie’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” she asked incredulously.

 

“You need an explanation?” Lou stood up. “She shows up at my _house_ and fifteen minutes later--”

 

“ _Excuse_ me,” Debbie shot to her feet. “You fucked her first.”

 

“I--” Lou’s cheeks went pink.

 

“Don’t you dare stand there and act all holier-than-thou, _Louise_ ,” Debbie snarled, jabbing her forefinger into Lou’s sternum. “Not when you decided to go off protocol and jump into bed with one of the _crew_.” And not with me, she didn’t add, because she absolutely did not care.

 

“Off _protocol_?” Lou repeated, her eyes widening. “You can’t be serious.”

 

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” Debbie let her hand drop.

 

“Oh, this is precious,” Lou said, taking a step back. “This is absolutely _precious. You_ getting all bent out of shape with _me_ about banging an…” She paused, letting the venom drip from her words. “ _Associate_.”

 

Debbie flinched. “That was different.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Lou’s eyes were blue ice. “How?”

 

“Well, she didn’t end up being a...a complete Benedict Arnold, did she?” Debbie sputtered.

 

“So you entered into your arrangement with Claude Becker with foreknowledge, did you?” Lou drawled, taking two sauntering steps backward and folding back onto the couch. “You’re not as smart as I always gave you credit for.”

 

“Goddamnit, Lou, this is different and you know it.” Debbie almost stomped with frustration.

 

“Why?” Lou sank into the cushions and glared at Debbie through her bangs. “Because she wanted me, too? Is that it? _Jealous_ , little tiger?”

 

“That’s it.” Debbie’s hand itched to swing out and swipe the lamp off the end table, but she curled it into a fist and hugged it against her side. “This conversation is over.” She turned and stalked toward the stairs.

 

“I see prison really improved your _communication skills_!” Lou shouted after her, her voice rising on the last word. Debbie didn’t look back. Just before her bedroom door swung shut behind her, she heard the sound of the lamp hitting the floor.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I don’t know why but I decided to use the song names from TLC’s album crazysexycool as my chapter titles because it felt like it fit and also I was obsessed with that album in middle school so if you haven’t heard it I implore you to Spotify it today XD


	7. red light special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here’s another chapter (unedited, please forgive me and please point out any errors), because my sleep schedule is allllllll messed up!

Two AM, and Debbie couldn’t sleep.

 

She couldn’t sleep, and she couldn’t focus on her research on the Musée de Cluny (as it turned out, she actually _did_ want her own unicorn tapestry, and the ones there seemed as good a place to start as any), and she couldn’t leave her bedroom because she kept hearing Lou clunking around downstairs, so she just did laps around her bed and fumed.

 

Comparing Daphne to Terrible Claude. That Lou should even have an _inkling_ that there was an _iota_ of similarity to Debbie’s _absolutely justifiable actions_ in this situation and his...his outright _treachery_ —that was just _lunatic_ . _Lou_ was the perfidious one. Lou was the one who had broken their goddamn _routine_ . They planned, they stole, they fucked, they fucking _jubilated_ . That was how they did things. Debbie _planned_ on it, damn it. She had exactly three constants in her life: her desire for material things, her ability to obtain those material things, and Lou. It was a three-legged _stool_ , for chrissake, and now it was lopsided and nonfunctional and upended, all because Lou saw doe eyes and long legs and, oh, what, a _bubblegum_ fetish.

 

 _Jealous, little tiger_ ? Lou’s scornful words echoed in her head. Jealous.  _Please_ . Lou could fuck whomever she wanted. It wasn’t as though Debbie couldn’t do the same. She just—she just generally  _didn’t._

 

Debbie flipped over for the six thousandth time and kicked off the blankets. She was damp with sweat on the left half of her body and freezing on the right. She could feel the mats in her hair get bigger and stickier each time she rolled over, like some sort of disgusting hair snowballs. She was thirsty, and she had to pee _again_ , which she supposed was a sort of rage-diuresis. She flung herself out of bed with significantly more drama than was required of a solo trip to the bathroom, but when she opened the door she stopped in her tracks.

 

Lou was sitting on the top step.

 

She must have heard Debbie open the door, but she didn’t look up. She looked unexpectedly pretty in the moonlight, and for a moment Debbie had the insane thought that she was still in Daphne’s movie, just an eccentric supporting role having a character-developing moment.

 

She opened her mouth, unsure of whether or not to acknowledge Lou’s presence, but Lou didn’t give her the chance to act. She got up in one smooth movement, picked up her beer bottle, and trotted briskly down the stairs. A moment later, Debbie heard her bedroom door close.

 

Debbie stomped to the bathroom, peed, stomped back to her room, and shut the door much harder than was courteous for two in the morning. Lou was being a _dick_ and Debbie didn’t give a shit about courtesy.

 

***

 

By four AM, Debbie had rolled the billiard balls of her current idiotic situation around in her head so many times that she was starting to wonder if there was, really, a significant difference between Lou’s decision to sleep with Daphne and her own. This wasn’t like running a complicated job. There were no orderly actions to establish one a time, no predictable domino-fall of consequences if a misstep was made. There were just three people in a very messy circumstance, only one of which had any decipherable emotional responses, and that person was neither Debbie nor Lou.

 

That person, incidentally, was also probably the one at most risk of being hurt.

 

The reality was that Lou and Debbie were a matched set. They’d been together the better part of two decades, and although they wandered away at intervals, they somehow always found each other again. Like magnets, or fucking—or fucking _boomerangs_ , or something. If Debbie was honest with herself—really honest, which was hard to do and also _stupid_ and _annoying—_ she knew that this fight with Lou was just another crest in the ocean of their relationship. Whatever that relationship was.

 

Stupid, this navel-gazing. Stupid, and _so_ annoying, and probably ultimately unproductive. But it was four AM and she couldn’t sleep and she had sweated herself to a state of probably irreversible dehydration, so there wasn’t really much else she could do except ruminate.

 

She liked Lou. No, that wasn’t right. She liked Daphne, and she _definitely_ felt differently about Daphne than Lou. She liked pie. She liked _things_.

 

She was in the hall.

 

Her treacherous feet, it seemed, were carrying her out of her room and down the stairs to where Lou was presumably peacefully asleep, devoid of irritating small-hours introspection. She opened Lou’s door without knocking.

 

Or not so devoid, it turned out. Lou rolled over at once. She still didn’t say anything. She favored blackout curtains—light irritated her at night—and Debbie couldn’t see her face in the darkness.

 

Debbie shuffled over to her bed, feeling with her feet until she kicked the post. “Hey,” she said.

 

She could feel Lou’s eyes on her. She was persistently, annoyingly silent.

 

She kicked the post again. “I like pie,” she said.

 

She heard Lou’s sharp, exasperated exhale.

 

“I like Daphne,” she added quickly, at which Lou reversed the exhale almost instantaneously. Debbie saw her silhouette sit up.

 

“I don’t like you,” Debbie said.

 

Lou sat up straighter. “What the f—“

 

“I need you,” Debbie interrupted, and Lou stopped talking.

 

The silence made Debbie cringe and coil with the _exposure_ of it, what she’d just said, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep going. “I’m not sorry, because Daphne is a _nice person_ , which you wouldn’t know anything about, and she’s _fun,_ and I like her. But I don’t need her like I need you.” She took a breath. “And you were right, you absolute asshole. I was jealous.” She kicked the bedpost a third time, hard enough to really hurt her toe. “And that’s all I wanted to say, so goodnight.”

 

She limped out of Lou’s room so fast she almost tripped over her own feet. She made it three steps out of the door when she felt Lou’s hand close on her upper arm.

 

“Come back here,” Lou said, and her fingers on Debbie’s arm were sharp but her tone wasn’t.

 

“Okay,” Debbie said, and then Lou was pulling her into her arms.

 

“You are _such_ an idiot,” Lou said. Her hair was just as matted as Debbie’s felt, and her breath was beer-stale with a hint of night gunk. She had never been more beautiful.

 

“You’re no prize yourself,” Debbie managed to say. Her hands found Lou’s waist, clumsily, and where had all the Daphne-learned confidence gone? She felt like a teenage boy on a first date.

 

“So you’ve said,” Lou murmured. Debbie caught the spark of a smile in Lou’s blue eyes, and then her mouth was on Debbie’s, and Debbie forgot the sum total of everything she’d ever learned in her entire life.

 

The kissing thing was sort of new, with yesterday’s romp in Debbie’s bed. _This_ kind of kissing hadn’t even been invented yet. Debbie had no idea Lou even had _emotions_ like this, let alone was so accurately able to transcribe them with her lips.

 

Lou was—Lou was _movie-kissing_ her. And it felt like she _meant_ it.

 

By the time Lou pulled back, Debbie was quite literally weak-kneed. And the funny part was, she hadn’t even begun to be turned on. It was like—it was sort of like her _feelings_ were turned on, which was weird, because she definitely hadn’t ever experienced anything like _that_ before.

 

Lou was just sort of looking at her, a small, amused smile on her lips.

 

“Um.” Debbie swallowed. Her mouth had so much _spit_ in it, but her throat was strangely dry. “This is. Um. New.”

 

The smile widened, but it didn’t look sardonic, or mocking, or any of the other wry Australian expressions Lou was so adept at wielding. It just looked sort of...nice. And fond. She leaned forward and kissed Debbie again, a little kiss, affectionate.

 

“Total idiot,” she said, brushing Debbie’s tangled hair out of her face.

 

“Yeah,” Debbie agreed. She leaned forward to kiss Lou again and stopped with her lips a millimeter away. “Lou.”

 

A sigh. “Yes, Debra.”

 

Debbie opened her eyes. She was absolutely going to regret bringing this up right now, when she was almost certainly about to engage in some really incredible sex, but it had to be said. “We have to do something about Daphne.”

 

Lou sighed again, resigned this time, no longer playful. She dropped her head against Debbie’s.

 

“Yeah,” she said. “I suppose we do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this album only has 16 tracks and I very much doubt this will be 16 chapters, so we are almost done, friends!


	8. waterfalls

Debbie wasn’t sure what a nine-year-old was doing at Bergdorf Goodman, particularly a nine-year-old who apparently had no adult supervision whatsoever. As Debbie watched, the little blond girl walked casually by a Trish McEvoy counter and nimbly swiped a tube of lipstick. It vanished into her coat sleeve. Three more counters, three more lipsticks into the sleeve. She actually took one _as the sales clerk was talking to her_ , asking her sweetly if she’d like to try a spritz of their newest perfume.

 

The girl beamed. “Yes, please,” she said, and when the clerk turned her back, she snagged a mascara too.

 

“Rindy,” a voice called.

 

The girl looked up, and Debbie followed her gaze. Lou was standing by the shoe section, a shopping bag in her hand, wearing a winter coat edged with fur.

 

“Oh, hi, Mom.” The girl abandoned the sales clerk and went toward Lou.

 

“Did you have fun, darling?” Lou asked the girl, and the girl smiled, and nodded, and put her hand in Lou’s. Then she looked back, directly at Debbie.

 

“Coming?” she asked, and Debbie woke up.

 

Watery early sunlight peeked around the edges of the blackout curtains. Her body ached with missed sleep. She rolled her eyes. _Jesus, Debbie_. One kiss from Lou and she was having saccharine dreams of domesticity. At least the kid had inherited Debbie’s skill set.

 

She moved her leg a little, just enough to feel the press of Lou’s thigh against hers. After Debbie had told her what Daphne had proposed, she had sighed heavily, said “I’m too tired for this,” and pulled Debbie into her bed.

 

She felt something peculiar and unfamiliar--a warmth, like a tiny glowing sun nestled just beneath her sternum. In nineteen years, Lou had never slept beside her.

 

Debbie closed her eyes. She was a grown woman, not a lovestruck adolescent swooning over a schoolyard crush. She tried to stifle the little sun, but then Lou rolled over and threw an arm across her stomach, and fine, maybe she was a sentimental idiot after all.

 

***

 

When she woke up again, the bed was empty, and she could hear Lou banging things in the kitchen. She came back to the bedroom a moment later with two mugs of coffee.

 

“Here,” she said, handing a mug to Debbie, as though they did this all the time, as though none of this had any significance whatsoever.

 

She climbed back into bed and sat cross-legged, leaning against the headboard. She sipped her coffee and closed her eyes. She was silent for so long that Debbie started to get uncomfortable.

 

“I’ve been thinking about stealing a unicorn,” she said at last, and Lou held up a hand.

 

“No,” she said, eyes still closed.

 

Well, that was something, at least. “I didn’t even tell you what kind,” Debbie said.

 

“The foundation of this crew is eight people.” Lou opened her eyes and put her coffee on the nightstand.

 

“You’re saying that we can’t pull jobs without Daphne,” Debbie said.

 

“I’m saying that hurt feelings are not a good reason for incarceration.”

 

“Right.” Debbie looked into her mug. Lou had added milk. She sipped. Vanilla syrup, her favorite kind. “So we’re telling her no to this throuple thing.”

 

Lou’s head whipped around so fast that Debbie actually jumped. Her eyes were round and incredulous. “ _Yes_ we’re telling her no,” she snapped. “You didn’t actually think--did you _want_ \--” She broke off, sputtering.

 

“No! No,” Debbie said hurriedly. She put a placating hand on Lou’s knee. “I just, you know. I wondered. Because of, because of before.”

 

Lou had the grace to look embarrassed. “I didn’t think it mattered. You and your _protocols_. I should have known better.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Debbie felt her heart rate pick up. “Turns out I don’t like sharing.”

 

“Stop. You’re making me blush.” Lou clearly meant this to sound glib, but when Debbie looked at her, she was pink-cheeked and wouldn’t return Debbie’s gaze.

 

Debbie put her mug down. They had been together--partners, lovers, whatever else they were--for long enough that her heart should not hammer as it did. Long enough that the invitation into Lou’s bed should not have kindled multitudes of celestial bodies within her ribcage. She looked at Lou, golden-haloed in the muted morning sunlight, her bangs catching in her long lashes, and she felt the galaxy in her chest tumble and proliferate and threaten to engulf her completely.

 

She was ruined.

 

She reached for Lou, slow and deliberate, wrapping her arm around Lou’s shoulders and pressing a gentle kiss to the side of Lou’s head. She heard Lou’s soft exhale, felt Lou’s hand slip over her thigh.

 

Oh, yeah. Totally, utterly ruined.

 

***

 

Friendly Roy wasn’t available to pick them up, as his primary employer was having some sort of tryst with her assistant and he was doing daily overtime driving them all over the city. Instead, Daphne herself pulled up to the curb in a blue Toyota with windows tinted so dark there was no way they were legal.

 

“Hi,” she said, climbing out. She looked nervous.

 

“They let you drive?” Lou drawled.

 

Daphne scowled. “I’m an actress, not an invalid,” she said crossly, but it worked: the nervous expression vanished.

 

“I already know what you’re going to say,” Daphne said, the moment Lou’s front door closed behind them. She took off her sunglasses and pushed her hood back. There was a pout in her voice, but not on her lips, thank God. “I don’t know why you couldn’t have told me over the phone.”

 

Debbie watched her kick off her shoes, tossing them wherever, like she’d done so many times in the past few weeks. She shuffled toward the couch and flopped onto it, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

Debbie followed Daphne into the living room and sat down next to her. Lou moved to Daphne’s other side. Daphne’s downcast gaze shifted from Debbie to Lou and back again, and the set of her shoulders relaxed a little. Debbie thought she almost smiled.

 

“Look,” Lou said, “it’s not that we don’t like you.”

 

The shoulders stiffened. Debbie wanted to reach over and smack Lou.

 

“God, Lou, be a little more tactless,” Debbie snapped, and when Daphne leaned into her and cast wounded eyes at Lou, Debbie realized she was dangerously close to becoming the good cop. She looked at Daphne. “It’s _not_ that we don’t like you,” she said. “But we’re--this is a young people thing, and we’re not--we’re kind of set in our ways.”

 

Daphne straightened up. She looked at Debbie, her eyes narrowing. “You keep saying _we_ ,” she said.

 

“What?” Debbie said.

 

“ _We_.” Daphne’s gaze went to Lou. She let out an exasperated sigh. “You guys really are just stupid for each other.”

 

Debbie looked at Lou. She couldn’t help it. Daphne presented herself as so--so _feathery_ , a pretty girl with no real sense--and no matter how many times she disproved that first impression, her insightfulness still came as a shock. Lou’s expression demonstrated equivalent bewilderment.

 

Daphne rolled her eyes so hard they threatened to pop out of her head. “I can’t believe I don’t even get to enjoy playing the martyr. Jesus.”

 

Lou was stammering. “Daphne, I don’t think--”

 

Daphne leveled a deprecating, surprisingly incisive look at Lou. “Am I wrong?”

 

Lou’s mouth snapped shut. Daphne looked satisfied.

 

“Okay,” she said, “I understand what’s happening here, even though you two clearly don’t. There’s no hard feelings--” She splayed her hands, candy-pink nails catching the light--”and I’ll stay out of your business, and we’ll just chalk it up to, whatever, experience, I guess.”

 

“Experience,” Debbie repeated.

 

“Yeah.” Daphne’s lip curled in a naughty little smile. “Or, like, I don’t know. If you guys get bored on a Friday. You can let me know.”

 

Debbie felt her cheeks heat up. “Daphne--”

 

“Too soon?” The smile widened. She looked positively kittenish. “Fine. Well. It’s my cheat day, and I’m having a beer.” She got up and went into the kitchen.

 

“That...did not go exactly as I planned,” Debbie said, staring after her.

 

“No,” Lou agreed faintly.

 

“We underestimate her, don’t we?” Debbie added.

 

A soft chuckle. “Undoubtedly.”

 

Something had changed just then. In one deft, pink-tinted motion, Daphne had taken the forge of their nineteen years and quenched and tempered it, turning it into--well. They had always been a team. But this was something new.

 

Debbie cast a sidelong glance at Lou, gave her an impish grin. “Are we going to call her if we’re bored on a Friday?”

 

Lou reached over, found Debbie’s hand, and brought it to her lips. “Deb,” she said, a smile in her voice, “shut up.”

 


	9. epilogue: take our time

It’s raining.

 

It rains a lot in Paris this time of year, not heavy downpours or anything dramatic, just a constant misty drizzle that mutes the colors and runs them together like an artist’s palette being rinsed clean. If you go, you must be sure to pack a good umbrella.

 

Come try this little cafe. It’s called La Brasserie L’Isle Saint Louis, and it’s close to Notre Dame, you can hear the bells from inside. Or if you wish to brave the weather, you can sit on the patio, under the awning, nestled like this couple near a tall heat lamp. The dark-haired woman has ordered the cassoulet; she’s trying unsuccessfully to convince the blond to try it. They’re sitting side-by-side, leaning in, conspiratorial smiles and words too low to hear. The brunette kisses the blond’s cheek, impulsive, and the blond laughs and pushes her away.

 

You catch their names: Debbie is the brunette; Lou, the blond. They pay for their meal in cash, bills peeled from a generous stack that’s quickly replaced in Debbie’s purse. They’re sharing a black umbrella. If you’d like, you can pull the hood of your raincoat over your head and follow them. Not too closely, mind you; not outside of the bounds of propriety. Just so you can see where this laughing, secretive couple might go.

 

Lou holds the umbrella and Debbie holds Lou, arm around her waist. Their boots--leather, surely being ruined by the rain--splash in the sidewalks, and they seem not to mind. They walk unhurriedly, still talking in those quiet voices, and they stop halfway across the Seine. A kiss on the middle of the bridge, half-hidden by the umbrella. Laughter, more laughter.

 

If you had been there this morning, you would have seen them emerge from a hotel near the foot of the Champs-Elysees. If they were under any sort of scrutiny, their stay in a place so luxurious might have attracted some attention, but the room was booked by a close friend, someone with lots of connections and plenty of experience with discretion. She flew them in, too, on a private jet, even though Lou had insisted they could fly commercial. She likes the two of them, after all.

 

They’ve walked a lot today, stopping for crepes at Debbie’s insistence, and coffee at Lou’s. But they’re at their destination now, having taken a long and rambling route to get there. It’s a lovely stone building, ancient, the architecture a perfect example of a medieval abbey, which it once was. Lou gives the umbrella a shake on the stairs outside and closes it. She holds the door for Debbie.

 

There are high ceilings in here, arched, and it would feel reverent if it weren’t so crowded with tourists. Their footsteps echo on the stone floors, water dripping from bright plastic ponchos. There are relics and jewels under glass, rooms and rooms of them, and Debbie walks slowly, hands at her sides. Lou looks mostly at Debbie.

 

Keep walking. Follow the tourists, rapt parents clutching guidebooks and their bored-looking ten-year-olds. Debbie and Lou are in the crowd. They’re walking into another room.

 

There are no glass cases now, no LEDs, no flash photography allowed. It’s mostly dark in here, the indirect lighting specially calibrated to minimize damage. The room is empty; only the walls are adorned. Rich red and green, not as vibrant as centuries ago, but you see, even in the dimness, that Debbie’s breath has caught. That her constant movement has ceased. That she is gazing in wonder at something she has, perhaps, dreamed of for a long, long time.

 

Lou reaches out and takes Debbie’s hand. Debbie looks at Lou, silent, eyes wide and full of an emotion you can’t quite identify. She swallows hard. She looks back at the unicorns. She’s blinking a lot.

 

They stand there, motionless, hand in hand, the tourists swirling around them like the Seine outside. Finally, Debbie squeezes Lou’s hand. She meets her eyes and nods. They walk out the same way they came in. They’re not talking now.

 

The unicorns stay where they are. They’ll stay there for a long, long time.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dear parisians, please forgive my geographic errors, it's been almost a decade since i've been to France <3
> 
> Thank you, thank you so much for reading!!


End file.
